


Paraphilial Activity

by americalovesthecockpit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America's POV, Crack, Halloween, M/M, Necrophilia, USUK - Freeform, lulz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americalovesthecockpit/pseuds/americalovesthecockpit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England accidentally chokes to death, though only temporarily because he is a country. What is America to do with his dead body in the meantime? It drives him mad and he asks France for help. Bad idea. USUK, crack, lulz, and a little bit of necrophilia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paraphilial Activity

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Halloween ... sort of. I gotta warn you though, this fic is fucked up. Standard crack warning applies. There is also brief necrophilia. Also, I just want to say that while there is sex in this fic, it is not very sexy.
> 
> Written in America's POV.

“It’s peanut butter jelly time! Peanut butter jelly time~!” I sung happily. I was in the kitchen, making myself a sammich. “Peanut butter jelly! Peanut butter jelly! Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat!”

I shook the jar in one hand and the knife in the other like they were maracas, and I was a dancing banana. I’m assuming y’all have seen that dancing banana, if not, what, did you just discover the internet or something? It’s been around since like 2000.

“Now where he at! Where he at!” I sung, shaking my improvised maracas. “Where he go! Where he go!”

Such deep lyrics. 

But I couldn’t remember the rest of them, so I went back to making my sammich. I finished up and was like MMM that looks good. I scooped the knife one last time in the jar and licked it. If you’re wondering if I was tasting from the jelly jar or the peanut butter jar, well guess what! IT’S BOTH! Smuckers makes a combination peanut butter and jelly jar … thing. It’s both in one jar! Because scooping from two jars is just too much work. This is a real thing, by the way. Look for it next time you go to Wal*mart or Krogers or the Piggly Wiggly or wherever you buy your foods.

“Mmm, yeah.”

That wasn’t me.

I looked over, my tongue still on the knife, to see England leaning on the kitchen doorway. Wearing nothing but his undies.

“You should lick me just like that,” said England. He was watching my tongue.

England had been staying with me for a few days. Today was his last day, though. In a few hours I’d have to drive him to the airport to fly back home.

“Come back to bed,” he purred, giving me that look that means he wants to get sexy. “Let’s have a bit more fun before I have to leave, eh?”

Damn was England insatiable! I guess because this trip was the first time we had seen each other in a while. We had sex so many times since he got here a few days ago! Like three times a day! Is that a lot? It felt like a lot. I got tired. I was _still_ very tired. We were up late last night doing it, and then England woke me up early this morning for even MOAR. Then we slept a little longer, and I woke up first, and went to the kitchen. Nothing like a PB&J after a BJ!

I tossed the knife in the sink. “Aw, come on. I’m tiiiiired …” I whined.

“But it’s my last day.”

I sat at the table with my plate. “Fine, okay! Lemme just eat my sammich first.”

“Very well then.” And then England sat down at the table with me. Which was weird, because he still wasn’t wearing anything but his underwear. “But do hurry.”

I nommed on my sammich. “I got a surprise for you,” I said.

“Oh?” said England slyly. “What could it be?”

I stopped chewing mid-bite when I felt England’s hand on my thigh. 

“You want to try something different, hmm?” he said. His hand inched higher up my inner thigh. “A new position? New move? New toy? My imagination is running wild now …”

I’d never been felt up while eating PB&J before. I wanted to reply, but the roof of my mouth was too sticky.

“You’re always so vanilla in the bedroom,” continued England. “I’m happy you’re becoming more adventurous.”

I managed to swallow down the peanut butter wad. “I’m not vanilla, _you’re_ just a pervert! Always wanting to try weird things like spanking my ass with a ruler or licking tea off me.”

“Those aren’t weird things!”

“YES THEY ARE!”

Boy was England gonna be disappointed by my surprise :/ It had nothing to do with penises or asses or sex at all!

Well, maybe it _kinda_ had something to do with penises. It all started a long time ago when I was at England’s house, and I was like, what’s that nasty smell? And England said, “My spotted dick. Would you like to try it?”

I was like WHOOOOAA THERE! _Spotted?_ Last I checked they ain’t supposed to be spotted! If they’re spotted, something’s wrong, and it’s time for some penicillin. 

But then I learned that in England, ‘spotted dick’ is a kind of pudding! PUDDING! And I use that term loosely, just like British people do. They call anything sweet over there ‘pudding’ even if it’s not pudding. (Real pudding = Snack Packs) I really don’t know what it was, you guys. It looked like a mushy cake or something. It even comes in cans over there! And they make fun of MY food? PSSSH! _Y’all_ got canned pudding-cake-crap and _we_ got ‘Cake Boss’ the awesome TV show. The winner is me.

Anyway, England LOVES spotted dick. It’s one of his favorites. And since he’s always bitching about my food, I thought I’d make him some. Partly because I’m a nice guy like that :)

But mostly just so I could make dick jokes, NGL. Like, “Hey, England, wanna try my delicious spotted dick?” and “You love my spotted dick in your mouth, don’t you?” and “Why are you spitting out my spotted dick?” (That last one was if he said I didn’t make it right and he spit it out.)

The spotted dick was currently steaming. I sure hope I did that right. It said to steam it for two hours! I ain’t no cook. Usually the most advanced I get with cooking is when I have to put my Lunchables together. And yeah, that’s cooking! Because I put mine in the microwave sometimes.

I sure hoped England liked his surprise! I put a lot of hard work into making it. Not just the preparation, but also, every recipe I found was in metric and that was so annoying to have to make Siri it convert for me.

“I sure hope you’re hungryyy~” I said. I was gonna tell him the surprise, hehe!

“Ugh, not for something like that.” England had his lip curled in disgust, nodding towards my sammich. “You yanks are the only ones who think peanut butter and jam together is a good combination.”

“… huh? What are you saying?”

“You didn’t know your country is the only one who likes ‘PB&J,’ as you call it?”

“GASP!” I gasped. “No, I didn’t!”

How could someone not like PB&J? ! It’s the best sammich ever! What the hell is wrong with other countries? ! Here we love PB&J so much that we made it a flavor for all sorts of things! Like ice cream and cookies and crackers and vodka! Yeah, even PB&J flavored vodka! That made Russia weep.

Maybe now was not the best of times to tell England about my spotted dick surprise. Not when he was being a cranky fusspot bitching about my food. I’ll tell him later.

I didn’t have much time to tell him anyway. As soon as I finished my sammich, he grabbed me by the hand and drug me up the steps. To the bedroom. And pulled me onto the bed with him.

He’d fallen backwards onto the bed, so he was on his back. He’d pulled me on top of him, and was now pulling my face to his. To MAKE OUT.

England was being kinda pushy about this! You should have seen the way he kissed me. His tongue was being so aggressive all up in my mouth! It was so intense he even licked off that last bit of peanut butter that was stuck to the roof of my mouth. That ain’t easy to do.

“Mmm,” he said, parting our lips. He looked up at me with his eyes only half open. “I want to try something different this time.”

“Nooo,” I pouted. “That’s not your surprise!”

“I just want to try it.”

“No, let’s just do it like normal people! I don’t like freaky sex! Please don’t give me a spankin’! I don’t—“

He interrupted me by pulling my face back down to his. And making out on me. 

Then I heard a RUSTLE RUSTLE and it was England scooting out his underwear. He got them off still laying under me, then shot them like a rubber band across the room.

We were still making out as his hands ran down my body and groped my ass.

“Mm,” he said again, breaking the kiss. “How do you want to do it this time? Do you want to top, or shall I?”

That was my favorite multiple choice test ever. I always knew the answer! :D

“Dude, I so wanna top,” I said.

“Good, I’m glad,” he said, even though he was still groping my butt hardcore. It was like he was a Domino’s guy and he was kneading pizza dough, except the dough was my butt. Not that I’m doughy or anything … “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Really? You usually prefer to top.”

“Yes, but this is a special occasion.”

Really? I didn’t know that. Must be one of them Jewish holidays like Yom Kippur or something. I know England likes to eat Kippurs with his breakfast sometimes.

I got my pants off and my penis out and was ALL READY TO GOOOOOO!

“Oh boy!” I said. “I’m so excited!”

“Heh … and you wanted to postpone this for a damn sandwich.”

“Hey, no dissing on the PB&J.”

England was on his back, holding his legs spread wide with his arms under his knees, asking for it. “Go ahead,” he said, smirking. “You don’t even need lube. Your cum is still in there from earlier.”

I think England thought that comment was hot. But all I could think is DAMN PURELL THAT ASS ALREADY. You’re not supposed to leave it in there! Just like you’re not supposed to leave wet clothes in the washing machine for too long. Or they get moldy. *THE MOAR YOU KNOW*

I spat on my hand and rubbed it on my cock anyway. England licked his lips, looking at me like how I look at PB&J’s. Just like MMMM CAN’T WAIT TO GET THAT IN ME.

I wondered why England was being such a bitch today. Not the bad kind of bitch like he likes to complain all day. The GOOD kind of bitch where he likes to bottom. Normally he’s all about trying to put his English spotted dick in my American chocolate Snack Pack. But not today! Also normally I’d be like OH BOY! TOPPING TIME FOR ME! And I kinda was, but I was less enthusiastic than usual because I was so goddamn tired.

England’s eyes rolled to the back of his head when I sank myself inside him. “Oh, _America_ …” he whimpered.

My muscles were all sore from last night but I banged him real good anyway! I just pushed through the pain. You know what they say! No pain no gain! I wanted to gain sex. And thus I did. I was definitely gonna need some Bengay tomorrow! That’s why they call it Bengay. You need it after you’ve been gay with someone and your muscles are sore from having sex. LOL JUST KIDDING! But didn’t that sound legit? Just like when I told gullible little Sealand Aspercreme is for people for Asperger’s. 

“Ohh …” England moaned, hooking his legs behind my back as I thrusted. He tried to push me deeper into him like that. “Just like that … yessss …”

“After … this …” I panted, humping like a boss, “I wanna … show you my … surprise …”

“ _Yes_ ,” England said very enthusiastically.

“Oh, yay! I’m glad … you’re excited … because I worked really hard—“

“Yes, yes, yes,” England continued in the same tone. Then I realized he wasn’t even listening to me. He hadn’t said ‘yes’ to wanting to see my surprise at all! :( He wasn’t even looking at me. His head was to the side, making a very desperate face, eyes squeezed shut, obviously thinking about no more of me than my COCK. “Yes, yes …!” he whimpered.

“Hey, listen to me—“

“Oh God, I’m almost there!”

“Don’t interrupt me! I _hate_ being inter—“

“OHHHHHHH!” England moaned like Big Ben was about to strike midnight and go ding dong if ya know what I mean. He was getting all squirmy under me and I knew he was about to pop.

“What did I just—“

“OH GOD AMERICA!” England exclaimed, trembling from sexiness. “PUT YOUR HANDS AROUND MY NECK AND CHOKE ME!”

“You never listen and — WHAT THE FUDGE!” D:

“D-do it!” England’s eyes looked crazy! Like he was friggin’ insane! They were scaring me! “FUCKING CHOKE ME!”

“The hell? ! No way!”

I’d slowed my rhythm because come on, this was weird. Choke him? ? WTF?

“It’s the thing I wanted to try,” he said, still with crazy eyes. “That I told you about earlier.”

“I ain’t choking nobody!”

“It’s called erotic asphyxiation. A lot of people do it.”

“Not me!”  

“FUCKING DO IT!”

D:

England was really scaring me. DOSE EYES. They looked like they could pierce through my soul, like Kristen Stewart’s lifeless stare! But England sure wasn’t lifeless. He was thrusting up all desperately and crazily trying to make up for my slowed rhythm. It was like he was possessed by a horny demon! And not just horny like they have horns. Horny like sexually too.

“No, that’ll hurt you!” I said. Then I yelped in pain because he dug his nails deep into my back. “YIPE!”

“Listen here,” he growled with scary determination like that guy in ‘Taken’ when he takes the phone from the bad guys and is like, ‘I don’t know who you are, blah blah blah’. You know. THAT scary.“ You are going to fucking do this,” said England. “It’s not optional.”

“Noooo—“

“I’m so close, it will feel so good, now do it before I lose it.”

“But—“

“FUCKING RIGHT NOW!”

“AHHHH!”

Now look, boys and girls. Don’t judge me for what I did next. I was scared and caught up in the moment. And sometimes when people yell at you, you do things you don’t normally do. Like choke them during sex.

I could barely still thrust while I did it. I wrapped my hands around his neck and just squeezed. Just a little. Just enough to feel the veins in his neck, and that’s all it took. (For me to be thoroughly creeped the fuck out.)

“HARDER!” he demanded. 

“I don’t wannaaaa,” I whined.

“Do it until I say to stop.”

I gradually squeezed harder and harder. England started to get shaky under me. His lungs were like spasming. I was about to let go because that was freaking me out, but England managed to shake his head no and mouth the words ‘keep going.’ 

His face was starting to turn purple. He clawed at the sheets below us, his legs kicked, and he kept jerking. He made these noises that sounded like the beginning of gasps but they didn’t quite get all the sound out. 

Then he went completely limp.

“OH CRAP!” I exclaimed. I quickly let go of his neck. “England, are you okay? !”

No response. His body was still completely limp. So was I if ya know what I mean. As soon as I felt England go still it was a one way ticket to flaccid town. I pulled out. 

There were bruises in the shape of my hands already starting to show around his neck. You could see the finger indentations and everything! SHIZNIT! Just how hard did I squeeze him? ! I do have super-strength, after all. I think I went a little too far! And killed him! Damn my muscular hot bod! If only I wasn’t so strong! I’d give up my muscles if I could take back what I did! Even if it meant I couldn’t ask people anymore if they had tickets to the show. Then when they say ‘what show?’ I’d flex my muscles and go ‘THE GUN SHOW!’

OH GOD I’M A MURDERER! D: Nancy Grace is gonna chew my ass out! Oh, and the cops might have something to say too.

I was crying like a baby when I heard it. England suddenly took a deep breath. I was so happy.

“OH ENGLAND!” I sobbed. “YOU’RE OKEY!”

And then he came the hardest I have ever seen him cum. He just blew like this super big load. His back arched and he moaned in a shaky voice and jizzed all over his stomach.

I just sat in pure disbelief :O

It kept coming and coming and he moaned the whole time. Finally he finished and collapsed against the bed with a heavy, exhausted, but satisfied sigh.

“That was …” he said in between breaths, “bloody amazing.”

I was still crying :’D

X

England sat at my kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. He liked to smoke after sex. He was dressed now and waiting for me to get the surprise I’d told him about. His chair at the table was facing away from me, at the counter, getting it ready.

“Christ, that was a good shag,” he said, blowing smoke from his cigarette. “Best I’ve had in a while.”

“Uh, r-right.” I was putting the spotted dick on a plate for England. It was a good thing he was turned away from me. My hands were still all shaky from earlier. That whole thing freaked me out!

“Sorry if I frightened you,” he said, taking another drag. “I probably should have explained everything first. But I was afraid you wouldn’t do it if I did.”

“Y-yeah … you did freak me out a _little_.” Okay truth time — I was gonna have nightmares for weeks :(

“Well, let me see if explaining it now helps you feel better. It’s called erotic asphyxiation, like I told you before. You can do it by yourself or with a partner. Basically, one is choked or has someone else choke them, and the lack of oxygen to the brain causes a euphoric sensation.”

“OH? ?” I said, still facing the counter and trembling.

“Yes. It produces a high,” he said. “But its effects on sexual arousal and ejaculation have also been long known. It was actually discovered from public hangings centuries ago. People noticed that the men being hanged often had erections, and sometimes even ejaculated. Something about the lack of oxygen is very stimulating to the genitals.”

“GEE THANKS FOR THE WIKIPEDIA ENTRY.” Note to self: never, ever look this shit up.

“I just wanted to try it.” England blew more smoke. Ugh, I hate smoking. Those ydoyouthink peoples had it right all along. Even though their campaign actually makes me try to think of reasons _to_ smoke, but whatever. (Sneaky sneaky, Philip Morris!)

“W-well, ya got what you wanted. I guess.” I finished getting the spotted dick ready. It looked disgusting. Just like the picture beside the recipe I printed off the internets. Guess I did it right!

“I’d never tried it before,” England continued on. I hate when he gets all talky and deep after sex. It’s a weird thing he does sometimes. “But I didn’t want to try it alone. I felt more comfortable doing it with you.”

“You shouldn’t feel comfortable at all!” I yelled, turning around. He was still turned the other way though. “It’s totally dangerous! Even with someone else there! You could have DIED!”

“So?” scoffed England. “We’re countries. You know death is only temporary for us.”

“SO IT’S STILL SCARY!”

 Though England did have a point. We were countries. Not humans. We couldn’t die for reals unless our actual nation ceased to exist. So if something happened to our humany bodies that would kill a human, we’d still die, but it’s temporary. We’ll eventually revive ourselves. It could weeks or months or even YEARS! But luckily it was usually just a few days. It just depends on what killed us. But until then, we’re dead. We don’t decompose, like we look like we’re in a coma, but it’s not a coma, we’re definitely DEAD. Like our hearts stop beating and brains stop functioning and other organs stop organing.

“Also just because we can’t die doesn’t mean can’t feel PAIN,” I said, walking over to him.

“I didn’t feel much pain,” England said all smugly. “I felt pretty damn good. I think the mess I made on my stomach was plenty proof of that, wouldn’t you say?”

When I came up behind England I saw the bruises I’d left on his neck. You could see every finger. They made me cringe. “Ugh, did you see I left bruises?”

“Did you?” England seemed to contemplate that for a moment, then shrugged it off. “Meh. I suppose that’s just the price I pay for a mind blowing orgasm.”

“What if someone sees? !”

England shrugged again. Less stuff bothers him after he’s been sexed up good. He’s all relaxed and crap. “Oh well. I’ll just cover it up.”

“What, you’ll wear a scarf for days straight? I mean I know it’s getting chillier, but it’s only October! You can’t do that! You’ll look like a fool wearing a scarf all the time, even when you’re inside, I mean _who does that?_ Ya know what I—“ I suddenly thought of something very disturbing. “Oh God what has Russia been doing? !” O_O

“Just show me your surprise already,” sighed England.

“Hmmph. Fine. Here it is.” I sat the spotted dick in front of him, on the table. “TA-DAAAA~”

England looked at it. “Is this … is this spotted dick?” he asked. 

“WHY YES IT IS!”

Oh wow, he recognized it! This is off to a good start! :D

“You bought some just for me?”

“Nope! I _made_ some just for you.”

England looked shocked. “You _made_ this?”

“Sure did!” 

England rubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “I have to say, America. I’m rather impressed. Spotted dick is not an easy dish to make, at least for those unfamiliar with it. You must have put a lot of work into doing this.”

“Wellll~” I said, giving a little bashful handwave. “What can I say? I wanted you to not feel homesick and I’m a good boyfriend and I care about you and it’s all about the little things and all that jazz.” Shhh don’t tell him about the Post-It note full of dick jokes in my pocket. We’ll let him find out about that momentarily ;)

I sat down beside England, getting all excited. He’d picked up a fork and was about to try it.

“Yeah, taste it!” I said excitedly. “Tell me what you think!”

“All right.”

England scooped a bit with his fork and brought it to his mouth. He opened wide and took a bite. I held my breath. Would he like it? I put a lot of work into it! And just seeing it made him happy! I would lose that if it tasted bad. But if he liked it, he’d be even MOAR happy! There was a lot on the line here, clearly. Feelings and all that.

England pulled the fork away from his mouth. And chewed. And swallowed. And paused. Damn him for being such a master at a poker face! I couldn’t tell what he thought! I had to wait for his stupid dramatic pause to be over before I could know if he liked it or not.

But he just sat there. Staring blankly.

“Well?” I asked. “What did you think? Is it good?”

“…” (He didn’t say anything!)

“Well, fine!” I said defensively. “Maybe it’s not what you’re used to over in fancy pancy English pudding dick master land! But I followed the recipe exactly and I really tried and—“

Weird … England’s face was turning purple again …

“… huh? England, are you okay?”

England suddenly started coughing very hard. He hit his chest with a fist, looking like he was in a panic.

“Oh my God, you’re choking!” I exclaimed. 

England nodded frantically, pointing to his neck.

“You need to chew your food properly, damn! Don’t worry, I’ll get you some water!” I ran to the sink but when I came back England was already on the floor. “OH LAWD!”

I threw the glass of water on his face. But it didn’t wake him up. I got on my knees and scooped him up into my lap. “England!” I sobbed. “Can you hear me? ! Wake up! Please!”

But England just lay limp and lifeless in my lap.

“No, please,” I begged, looking into his face. My eyes teared up and it was very dramatic. YOU BETTER BE GETTING SAD AT HOME READING THIS, BOYS AND GIRLS. “You can’t leave me, England. Don’t go towards the light. Stay here! Stay with me!” I buried my face into his shirt and sobbed. “Please, please don’t leave me.”

BAWWWWWWW :’(

He didn’t wake up. I checked his pulse with two fingers pressed against his neck, pressed against his bruises, and there was nothing. He died in my arms.

“I … d-didn’t get … to say …” I was weeping, my breath hitching on my words, still burying my face in his shirt, “a-all those dick jokes I thought of.”

X

Later, I stopped being such a pussy and stopped crying. There was no time for DRAMA. I had to deal with this like a MAN. With my BALLS. 

But still. I couldn’t believe England died choking on my spotted dick. HE DIED CHOKING ON MY SPOTTED DICK!

Jeez, I needed to get it together! Drama ain’t gonna help England and his dead self. Time to put on my big boy pants and deal with this.

England’s flight was leaving in just a few hours. But he wasn’t going to be able to make it, because he was dead, duh. And there was no way he would be alive again before it was time. He needed at least a day or two to revive himself. Maybe even longer. I needed to buy some time!

Now _normally_ , countries don’t hide another dead country from the rest of the world or their leaders. But guess what? This didn’t look good for me. England was dead and he had very obvious bruises around his neck. In the shape of handprints. In the shape of MY handprints. Y’all know what that looks like, right? 

They’re gonna think _I_ choked him! I mean, I did choke him. BUT NOT IN THE MURDEROUS WAY! I DIDN’T KILL HIM! But they’ll never believe me that he choked on my spotted dick! Oh nooo. They’ll think we got into an argument and I couldn’t control my temper and I grabbed him by the neck and did my Homer Simpson impression when he chokes Bart and went “WHY YOU LITTLE …!” and England made a choking noise and then he died.

Even though that’s TOTALLY not what happened, you guys! Y’all believe me, right? I’m innocent! I would never murder England! He’d just come back to life all pissed off anyway! Then how will I watch ‘Ice Road Truckers’ with him bitching all night?

I highly doubt England’s bosses would believe me. No, they’d get all pissed and say this was an international incident and our countries wouldn’t have a Special Relationship anymore (it’s really called that, look it up. Even Wikipedia knows about our ~SPECIAL~ Relationship, LOL.) Heck, they might even declare war and then like Prince Whatshisface and Kate Middleton on their wedding night I would be ROYALLY FUCKED!

I had to buy some time. And since Dr. Who was just a fanciful figment of England’s imagination, like fairies or universal healthcare, I had to go to plan B.

“Hey, Queen,” I said over the phone to the Queen of England (not Queen the band, though that would have been cool.) “It’s me, America. ‘sup?” Then I realized that probably wasn’t very proper. So I just added, “… your highness.” Nailed it.

“I am busy, America,” said the Queen. “Whatever is so important that I had to be torn from my royal duties to speak with you?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to take you away from the very important task of petting your fat Corgis. I just needed to tell you about England. Ya see, he’s not gonna be able to fly back to your country today after all.”

“Why not?” she asked Britishly.

“Uh …” 

CRAP. I didn’t think that far in my plan. _‘Why?_ ’ WHOA what a curveball! I was unprepared for that.

“America?”

“Well, something suddenly came up,” I quickly replied. Thanks Marcia Brady for that genius excuse. You’re a clever one ;)

“What came up?” asked the Queen.

DAMN! _Another_ curveball! This Queen is a crafty one.

“Is he ill?” she asked.

Oh score! She thought of an excuse for me! Not so crafty now are you, ya old bag? “Uh, y-yes!” I said. “Yeah, he’s real sick. He’s gonna need at least a couple days to recover before he comes home.” It wasn’t even a lie. Dead is _kinda_ like sick, right?

“May I speak with him? I don’t understand why he couldn’t tell this to me himself.”

“With all due respect, your honor, he is in the restroom and cannot come out because he has the shits.”

“I see,” said the Queen. “Well, give him my well wishes. I do hope he feels better.”

“Okay, peace out.” I hung up.

PHEW! I bought myself some time. Now all I had to do was wait around a couple days for England to naturally come back to life and this nightmare before Christmas would be over. 

X

You guys ever hid a dead body?

It ain’t easy.

Especially if you’re popular like me. One minute you’re eating microwaved Lunchables on your couch watching the Colbert Report next to a dead body, and the next someone’s knocking at the door! I’m all scrambling to throw a blanket over England’s corpse while trying not to spill my Capri Sun while the doorbell goes DING DONG DING DONG.

Sometimes it’s UPS or FedEx. I told you I’m popular. And they’re always like ‘Sign here, please’ but I know what they REALLY mean. I can hear it in their tones, their _accusing_ tones, ‘MURDERER!’ And when they say ‘Have a nice day’ I know they really mean, ‘Have a nice day MURDERING!’

One time it was my neighbor saying he got some of my mail by accident. He said, ‘I saw I got your Val-Pac in my mail today, haha,’ but once again I could read between the lines. I know he meant ‘I saw you MURDER someone, haha.’ It’s like jazz — it’s the notes you DON’T play. Or in this case words you don’t say. You know what I mean. 

And then a pizza guy came to my house. I guess that one was my fault since I ordered Domino’s. But I DIDN’T order an ACCUSATION! He’s all like ‘Here’s your large pan pizza with sausage and green peppers,’ but I knew he meant, ‘Here’s your large pan pizza with dead England’s flesh because you MURDERED him and green peppers.’

It was driving me mad. I had to keep the curtains drawn all the time. Lock the doors and stop answering them. Not answer the phone either. Just lock myself away.

What, you thinking I’m paranoid? I know you are. You’re thinking I’m paranoid because of England’s death. I KNOW YOU ARE! I don’t have proof but I can FEEL it! Everyone thinks I’m paranoid! Just because I assume every encounter I have with someone is one accusing me of murder! I can see it in their EYES! Or their VOICES! Or just … something. Look, it’s there. Trust me. It’s not like I’m going insane with paranoia or something. No way, you guys.

So one day I was in bed hiding under the covers rocking back and forth crying while reading a book by Glenn Beck when the doorbell rang. I was like HELLLLLL NO. I ain’t answering the door for NOBODY. Not even Domino’s. Did you know they now have a pan pizza? That’s like their new thing. WOW MADE IN A PAN MY MIND IS BLOWN.

“Oh, Americaaaa~” said a voice from outside. “It’s me! Your favorite unitary semi-presidential constitutional republic~!”

I peeked out from under my blanket. “Djibouti?” I asked hopefully :O

“It’s me, France!”

Oh -_-

“Let me in!” he yelled outside the door. “I need to speak with you!”

“NO!” I shouted back, though I didn’t know if he could hear me. “GO AWAY! I’M NOT HOME!”

But France is very persistent. And annoying. He just kept ringing and ringing and ringing my doorbell. But I didn’t answer. I was kinda busy, kinda busy~ Now I know how Lady Gaga felt in that club. Stop calling, stop calling, I don’t wanna think anymore. I left my head and heart on the dance floor. 

(And England’s dead body on the couch.)

But finally I couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn’t gonna stop until I answered the door! This was nothing a swift kick in his French ass couldn’t take care of.

DING DONG DING DONG DING—

“WHAT? !” I yelled, throwing open the door. “WHAT DO YOU WANT? !”

“Bonjourrrrr~” he trilled annoyingly. “How is precious little Am — oh my! You look absolutely dreadful! What happened? Do you have le fungal meningitis? You poor dear.”

“No,” I sighed. “I … I just got some stuff going on.”

It was true. I didn’t look my normal hot self. I hadn’t been bathing normally, or combing my hair, I was in my pajamas that weren’t buttoned in the right holes for the shirt part, my eyes were bloodshot, and I’d had the same pizza sauce stain on my shirt for days. (Lunchables pizza, not Domino’s. I had to make it myself and that is hard work.)

“Come, come,” said France, pushing himself in. “Tell Big Brother all about it.”

I didn’t want to, but it was the first human contact I’d had in days, so I let him in. We sat down on my couch next to England’s dead body (it was covered in a blanket, of course. I got a little class, okay?)

“I dunno,” I said. “I can’t really talk about it.”

“Please!” said France. “Something is obviously bothering you, no? You can confide in me.”

OMG FRANCE KNOWS. I can tell these things because I’m para — I MEAN SMART. I’m not paranoid! It’s not paranoia if it’s true! France knows England’s dead and he’s gonna blame me and I’m gonna cause lots of people to get pissed at me and maybe even cause a war and Obama’s gonna spank me and Sasha and Malia are gonna watch and laugh D:

“N-n-n-no thanks,” I said, shaking. “Here in America us men folk bottle our emotions up. That’s the MANLY way.”

“Nonsense!” said France. “Zis is eating you up! You must share your emotions — you cannot keep living like zis.” 

France said that. But I knew he really meant ‘You must share your MURDER — _England_ cannot keep living like this because he’s DEAD and MURDERED.’

“No!” I shouted, scooting away from him on the couch. I scooted so far I bumped into England’s dead body a little. “I said I don’t wanna talk about it! Leave me alone!”

“But you will feel better if you talk about it!”

“OH GOD!” I exclaimed quite dramatically. “I can’t take any more of your accusations! That’s it! I’ll admit it, okay? ! ENGLAND IS DEAD!”

“Dead?” said France, hardly reacting at all. “Oh, zat is right! I originally came here to harass him while he was still ill, didn’t I? I forgot when I saw how absolutely _horrendous_ you looked.”

“You … you don’t care that he’s dead?”

“Well, it is only a temporary death, no? We are countries, after all.”

“Heh heh …” I chuckled nervously. “Yeeeah … it’s t-temporary. Soooo no need to tell anyone, all right? Let’s just keep it between us. Pinky swear?”

But France left my pinky hanging. “Why are you acting so suspicious? If he fell ill and died, zat is not your fault.”

Y’all know what France really meant. ‘If he got choked and MURDERED, zat IS your fault!’

“I DIDN’T KILL HIM I SWEAR!” I said suddenly. 

“… eh?”

“I WOULD NEVER MURDER ENGLAND! Even if he really pissed me off! I swear, the most I’d ever do would be punch him in the kidneys — but that’s only if he REALLY pissed me off! I’d definitely never MURDER him!”

France looked very surprised … and a bit nervous. “Eh … America? I didn’t say anything about murder?”

“It’s ‘MURDER’! You gotta say it loud enough to be in ALL CAPS! Because it’s a DRAMATIC WORD!”

“Oh my!” France looked to his wrist like he had a watch but he did not have a watch. “Look at ze time! I must be going!” 

“No! Please!” I fell to the floor, on my knees. I was at his feet. “You gotta help me! I don’t know what to do! He died and it’s been over a week and he still won’t come back to life yet! His bosses keep calling and my bosses keep calling because his bosses called my bosses and they all wanna know where he is and why he won’t leave or talk to anyone! And no one believes my impersonation of him on the phone even though I really tried hard and said ‘bloody’ and ‘git’ a lot! They all want answers and I don’t know what to tell them! HELP ME FRANCE!”

Please don’t judge me for crying again you guys :(

“My,” said France. He stared down at me for a moment, looking a bit stunned. Then he petted my head like a kitty. “Zere, zere, America. Big Brother will help you.”

I sniffled up at him. “Y-you will?” :’D

“Yes, of course~ But first you must show me England. I must see zis for myself.”

“Oh, uh. He’s right beside you under the blanket.”

France looked over at that big body-shaped lump. “Oh. I thought zat was a blow-up doll. I didn’t want to embarrass you by mentioning it, honhonhon!”

“Hey, show some respect for the dead!” I said as I stood up.

France pulled off the blanket. There was England. Dead and lifeless, just like he’d been for a week.

“Why is he wearing sunglasses?” asked France.

“It was spooky having those dead eyes just staring like that!” I said. “How could I NOT put sunglasses over them?”

“Peh. So much for respect for ze dead.”

“Hey, that’s respectful. He looks really cool in those sunglasses.”

France was looking very closely at England’s dead body. It was very dead, but it didn’t look decayed or anything. Us countries don’t decompose or get rigor mortis or any of that jazz. He looked like he literally just died.

“America,” began France, still staring at England. “May I hold your hands?”

“Um, WHOA. Look, I know England’s dead and all but don’t think that means you can just swoop in and get gay with me in his place.”

France sighed. “Zis isn’t gay. Just let me see zem for a moment.”

“Augh, fine.”

France took my hands and placed them over England’s neck. Right over the handprints.

“Interesting,” said France. “Zey are a match.”

I quickly pulled my hands away. “Oh my God! It’s not what it looks like, I swear!” France just gave me a look like ORLY? “REALLY! I didn’t MURDER him! It was an accident! He choked on my spotted dick.”

“Oh my. Zis just keeps getting more and more interesting.” France was smiling! Like he was amused by this! GRRR! “So tell me, was holding England’s head down on your manhood long enough to literally strangle ze life out of him worth ze momentary sensation?”

“WHAT!” I exclaimed. Oh God I didn’t even think about that sounded D: “I didn’t do that! Spotted dick is a _pudding_!”

“Right … and pudding leaves handprints?”

“Oh … um … well, about that …”

Crap. I didn’t wanna tell France how those got there! I don’t want him thinking I’m a pervert. Then he really might try to get gay with me. Like how some dudes will hit on women when their boyfriend dumps them. Some guys do that when women’s husbands die too, right? Like hit on widows? Well, lowlife guys. I could see France doing that. I’m over here mourning and shit, and France is like, ‘Oh come here baby, I’m here for you, bonjour and other French words.’ And I’m all emotional and like ‘OHHH I JUST WANNA BE HELD TONIGHT!’ and he bangs me slowly and passionately after a glass or two of his favorite wine, in front of the fireplace, as the image of our bodies humping and entangled in a naked, ungodly tryst reflects in England’s cold, lifeless eyes, sitting on the nearby couch.

I DON’T WANT THAT D:

“Well, France,” I said. “I definitely didn’t erotically asphyxiate him during sex. Nope. Definitely didn’t do that.”

Sounds legit, right?

“Ahh,” said France, getting all smug like all French people are. “Now zis all makes sense. You choked him during le sweet amour, but accidentally held too long, and instead of _thrilling_ him, you ended up _killing_ him, yes?”

“NO!”

“Now don’t be ashamed. It was an accident. And we all have our kinkier sides, HONHONHON!”

Great. Now France thinks I MURDERED him _accidentally_. Yeah, that’s loads better. NOT. Manslaughter may not be as harsh a punishment as MURDER, but ya still go to jail for it! And can you imagine me having to tell our bosses I accidentally choked England to death during erotic asphyxiation? ‘Oh yeah, your majesty, England was just really horny and submissive that day and nothing get his rocks off better than me strangling him until he can’t breathe because he’s into that.’ Pssh, yeah. That’ll go over real well. That old bat would be like ‘OH HEAVENS!’ while trying to fan herself and her servants try to dab the sweat off of her with crumpets. 

And Obama. If I said that he’d be like ‘Now, America.’ Then he’d do that pause thing he does. He always pauses. ‘This nation,’ Another pause. ‘Was not built.’ Pause. ‘On choking our allies to intensify our orgasms for a sexual thrill, regardless of how good it feels.’ Pause. ‘It’s very dangerous.’ Still another pause. ‘Now then.’ Yet another pause. ‘I probably should have asked Sasha and Malia to leave before saying this to you in front of them.’

“I didn’t kill him!” I said to France. “Please don’t tell England’s queen or Obama that’s what happened!”

“But you admit you choked him during sex?”

“I … well … l-let me explain—“ Damn my rambling. “Okay, YEAH! I admit it, okay? ! I choked him during sex! He begged me to! I didn’t wanna, he made me, GOD!”

“Zat does sound like England,” chuckled France. He poked England’s dead body a couple times with his finger. It’s hard to resist poking a dead body.

“But I didn’t kill him!” I insisted. “The choking was weird and scary but he survived! Then we went downstairs and I made him some spotted dick and he took a bite and choked to death.”

“Hmm, yes, I don’t believe you at all.”

Oh God. I’m so going to jail. (Or ‘gaol’ as England spells it. Yeah, he spells ‘jail’ as ‘gaol’! I mean WTF! It’s not even close! I can see some spelling differences like how they say ’50 Shades of GREY’ and we say ’50 Shades of GRAY’ but come on, ‘gaol’ is just getting a little too crazy.)

“But it’s the truth!” I said. “I swear! I swear over England’s dead body!” I leaned over England’s dead body on the couch a little bit. “See? I swear!”

“Heh. Well, I suppose we’ll just see when he finally comes to, won’t we?”

“Yeah, see, that’s kinda the problem. I thought he’d be back now and I don’t know what’s taking so long.”

“Ah. What a shame you cannot talk to zose in ze afterlife.”

:O

Wait a minute, you guys. I may not being able to talk to England because he is dead like Billy Mays God rest his soul, but guess what you CAN talk to? That’s right.

GHOSTS.

All I had to do was conjure up England’s ghost and ASK! I got two things to ask him. One: what’s taking you so long to come back to life? And B: can you tell France and everyone else I didn’t MURDER you? ! Also maybe a third question: can you go up and haunt Canada? LOL that would be funny. He’d be like all like ‘Who moved my pancakes? ! They were right here!’ or whatever the fuck he says.

Now there’s a few ways to contact ghosts. The easiest way I already said: get haunted. But that’s not really in your control. The ghosts pick YOU, not the other way around. And yeah you might get a nice *COUGHpussyCOUGH* ghost like Casper. Or you might end up with douche bag ghosts like in ‘Paranormal Activity’ and no one wants to end up like in ‘Paranormal Activity’ (that’d be a very boring life with just a little scariness at the very end of it.) Obviously England has chosen not to haunt me on his own, so that is OUT.

Another way to contract ghosts is through a PSYCHIC. Like MISS CLEO. Does anyone remember Miss Cleo? She was a psychic back in the late 90’s / early 2000’s (GOOD YEARS) and I called her number on the commercial. I said ‘Miss Cleo, read my palms and tell me my future! Who wins on Survivor?’ (Survivor was cool back then) and she was like ‘I read _cards_ , bitch!’ and now that I think about it I dunno if she talked to ghosts either. But that shit costs money anyway, and Obama is already mad at me for spending too much money on Domino’s new pan pizza every day, so that was out.

Another way to talk to ghosts is to go in your bathroom late at night, shut the door, turn off your lights, look into the mirror and say ‘bloody Mary’ three times. Then some crazy bitch will come and MURDER you or something. LOL just kidding. That’s so not true. If fact, why don’t you do it tonight? After all, it’s not true. No? You’re not gonna do it? Why not, are you a pussy? Haha, you pussy. You won’t do it. You’re too scared :P But don’t worry. That noise you’ll hear when you lay down to sleep tonight and wonder what it was and think it must just be like your AC/heater blowing or your cat being a retard … no. It’s her coming to get you. Don’t forget tonight. She won’t, hehe.

WTF was I talking about. Oh yeah. Contacting ghosts. Well, I could be like those guys on those ghost hunter shows with all their sciencey equipment. They come in and record stuff and play it back and hear static. OMG STATIC MY FAVORITE. Then they find cold spots in a room and shit themselves with excitement because there’s no such things as a draft or poor circulation of air. Psssh, no. I want more from England than static and him getting his ghostly coldness on me. 

There was only one other way I knew of. It’s called a séance. Yeah, I used an accent, WHAT OF IT? For those of you who read that word wrong, it’s pronounced say-onnce. It’s French, so you actually you can just say see-ance just to piss off France, LOL. Anyway, French peoples made up a fancy schmancy way of contacting the dead. You sit at a table and invite them for dinner. Or something. I dunno, but apparently it works.

And guess who’s here? A French people.

“Zoe my God, France!” (That’s how you pronounce ‘ZOMG’) I said. “I just got a great idea!”

“How doubtful!” said France, still poking England’s dead body. “But I suppose you will tell me what it is regardless.”

“YES I WILL! You and me will have a séance! And ask England’s ghost!”

“A séance?” France seemed pleasantly surprised. “Now zat is an idea. You know, despite ze exact origins of ze séance being unknown, ze word is French, so I will pretend it is from my country …”

France went on to explain the history and method of séances, but no1curr. I left while he was still talking (his eyes were shut while he smugly explained everything so he didn’t notice, LOL) and went upstairs. I needed to find something. Something IMPORTANT.

I dug through my pile of board games. I had a lot. Let’s see here. I had Trouble, but the popper bubble thing was busted because I popped it too many times. Sometimes I wasn’t even playing, I just wanted to pop that thing! Like Pringles, once I popped I couldn’t stop. Until it broke and I didn’t have a choice :(

I also had Guess Who? Y’all remember that game? Where you got pictures of peoples and you gotta ask questions to the other person about THEIR peoples and guess what person they’re thinking of? There weren’t that many women or black people, so unless you picked a white male for your opponent to guess, you were gonna LOSE. Just like being Republican.

I also had Monopoly. No, not the one you’re used to. Or even one of the millions of ‘SPECIAL EDITION’ ones that are themed like stuff like The Simpsons or Pokemon or The Kardashians. No, no. I have the new Monopoly which has AUTOMATED BANKING. (Real thing, you guys.) You remember as a kid having to count your money and, like, keep track of it? WELL NOT ANYMORE. It does it all for you, completely automatically! Because I cannot be assed with counting during a game based on money. Plus the money was all colorful and crap! I mean, who am I, Canada? (He has colorful money IRL, not just in Monopoly, for those that did not get the joke.)

But after pushing aside Don’t Wake Daddy and that game where the little plastic fish open and close their mouths slowly for you to put a hook in, I found what I was looking for. 

A OUIJA BOARD.

(That’s pronounced ‘wee-jee’. Like Mario’s brother.)

I ran back downstairs with it. France was still rambling in no1curr town, and hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

“Hey, France!” I said. “We can use this!” 

“… and was ultimately decided by skeptics to be a parlor trick — what ze! Where did you get zat?”

I was holding up the Oujia board. “Between Connect Four and HiHo Cherry-O.”

France looked at ze game. I mean THE game. Damnit now he’s got ME doing it! “Well zen _what_ is it? I thought you wanted to conduct a séance, not play childish games.”

“It’s not a game! It’s a Oujia board! It lets you talk to ghosts!”

“It says made by Hasbro on ze box.”

“… your point?”

Many peoples believe that since the Ouija board is so mysterious and magical and all that, it _must_ have some spooky origin. Like Satanists invented it while having a picnic on someone’s grave at midnight while they all cut themselves and pressed their cuts together because this was long before AIDS came around so that was spooky but okey. BUT NO. It was actually invented by American businessmen trying to make a quick buck and was owned and manufactured by Parker Brothers and then Hasbro. Why am I happy about this if it takes away a lot of the spooky mystery? Because they’re AMERICAN businessmen, and AMERICA FUCK YEAH! My country invents all the cool stuff. Other countries are jelly.

France bitched about using a commercial toy to communicate with the dead instead of established séance methods, but it’s MY house. When it’s your own house you get the good seat while watching TV, get to be first player when playing video games, and get to decide how you properly contact dead people. DUH! Read your Emily Post books, you guys.

All the curtains were already drawn in my house. All I had to do was turn out the lights, get some candles going, and I had set the mood for England. Not a sexy mood like you normally would by lighting candles and turning the lights out, oh no. This was for ~SPOOKY AMBIENCE~

“You wanna snack before we begin?” I asked France, who was sitting at the table waiting. “I got Candy Corn Flavored Oreos. You want some?”

“PEH! Zat sounds disgusting.”

“Says the guy who considers shoving a feeding tube down a goose’s neck and force feeding it until it has liver disease and then eating the diseased liver to be good …” I muttered.

“Eh! Foie gras is a delicacy!”

“No, I totally just burned you. BUUUUUUUURN — _o-oh_.” I stopped mid-bite. And spit the cookie into my hand. “Oh, GOD … you were right, France. These taste like crap!”

Hmm, probably should have seen that coming. Candy corn tastes like shit. You never see the childrens get excited for that if you put it in their Halloween bag! No, they all want Snickers and Milky Ways and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and M&M’s and Skittles and now I’m hungry. By the way, why do they call those little bars ‘Fun Size’? That ain’t fun size. Fun size means the bigger the better! The bigger it is the more fun it is! That’s how I feel. (Umm … e-except in bed, because five inches is plenty, I mean that’s average, and it’s all how you use it, ya know?)

Anyway, I threw the Candy Corn Flavored Oreos away and just ate Birthday Cake Flavored Oreos instead. Mmm are those good. By the way the Candy Corn Flavored Oreos are a real thing, so BEWARE, boys and girls. Just get the regular Halloween kind with the orange filling. Don’t be duped. I learned my lesson the hard way :(

So we sat at the table and the lights were off and it was dark and the candles flickered over our faces making spooky shadows.

“This is perfect,” I said. “Looks like a ghost’s natural habitat! I even left out some ghost food as bait to help lure him out.”

France glanced over to where I put it on the table. “America, why did you leave out a paper plate full of cereal? !”

“It’s Boo Berry!” I said. “That’s ghost food! Ghosts like it! Just like you leave cookies out for Santa, and carrots out for the Easter Bunny, you leave Boo Berry cereal out for ghosts.”

“Just how many ghosts are you looking to attract?”

:/

“Crap, you’re right. I’m afraid of ghosts! I don’t want any more than England to come! Better get rid of it.”  So I ate the Boo Berry, nomnomnom. 

“Shall we begin?” asked France when I finished munching the cereal.

“YEAH! I already had my potty break and everything.” You know. Just in case.

Let me explain for you Ouija n00bs how it works. The Ouija board looks like … well, a board. It has the alphabet on it, so that ghosts can spell things out to you. Like messages and stuff, like letter by letter. It also has the numbers zero through nine, so they can tell you numbers, like the lottery or something, I dunno. At the top it says ‘yes’ and ‘no’ so the ghosts can answer yes and no questions. And at the bottom it says ‘goodbye’ so when they get tired of talking to us normies and wanna go back to ghost stuff like watching you in your bed tonight they can. (Don’t forget. She’s coming for you tonight.)

France was gonna do it. Even though the Ouija board was an American invention and even séances in general aren’t traditionally French, I just didn’t wanna do it myself. I mean, what if bad ghosts come? Who do you think they’re gonna be most pissed at? The person contacting them with the board, duh. Not the minding his-own-business, cool, handsome guy sitting next to him. 

… I hope :(

I mean, I don’t wanna end up all haunted. Remember ‘The Ring’? I don’t want my face all jacked up like those peoples who watched the video! (I’d put an emoticon here but there is none that do that fucked up look any justice.)

“Oh spirits,” started France. “We seek to commune with you! Please come forth so zat we may—“

“Spirit _s?_ Dude, France, I only wanna speak to England! Don’t you call a bunch of scary ghosts out in here!”

“Very well zen.” France cleared his throat and said, “OH ENGLAND! AMERICA WANTS TO TALK TO YOU! GET OUT HERE!”

I glanced around the room looking and listening for any ghostly things to happen. A knock, something falling over, maybe even a voice. But I didn’t hear anything.

“England!” France called again. “Come out! We wish to speak to you!”

“Yeah, come out, England! You want some Boo Berry cereal?”

We paused and listened again. I didn’t hear anything. It was an eerie quiet. I was scared. I dunno why, I mean I’m not afraid of England, even if he’s a ghost. But I AM afraid of the bad ghosts, like the ones in ‘The Grudge’ so it was spooky.

Then suddenly, we heard a loud KNOCK KNOCK.

“Oh shit!” I yelped. “They’re gonna get us! Where’s my gun?”

“Hmm.” France wasn’t scared at all. “I think zat was your door.”

“Huh? Someone’s at the door? Well, BRB.” Cool people say BRB even off the interwebs.

So I went to the front door and opened it. When I did, I saw some childrens on my stoop. One was dressed as Mario, one as Weegee, and one as an Angry Bird.

“TRICK OR TREAT!” they all yelled together.

“What the …” 

They held up bags partially filled with candy.

“It’s Halloween?” I said to them. “Really?”

“Yep!” said the Angry Bird kid. 

No way! I’d lost track of time! Had it really been that long? England’s been dead and his lifeless body has been sitting on my couch as I hid away from everyone calling me a MURDERER for THAT LONG? Jesus …

“Trick or treat!” they said again.

“Pssh, you kids are wimps,” I snapped at them. “It ain’t even 5:00 yet! The sun is up in the sky shining brightly! What’s wrong with you kids today, trick or treating so early? You’re supposed to wait until it’s completely dark!”

“My mommy says it’s safer!” said one of the childrens. 

“Whatever. I ain’t even got my candy ready yet.”

So I slammed the door on them. Childrens these days ...

I went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table with France.

“America!” he exclaimed. “While you were gone, I had a major breakthrough! England is communicating with me!”

“No way! Awesome! Did you ask him how he died yet?”

“No, no~ You don’t just jump into such things as soon as you make contact. It is like making love. You start off slow, building it up, a delicate dance of give and take, until you know you can go DEEPER—“

“Jesus, is there anything you _can’t_ make about sex? We’re talking about dead people here, yeesh.”

France scoffed at me. “Peh. It was only an analogy. But I suspect England is used to you skimping on ze foreplay and just diving in, so I will ask him.”

“Hey, that ain’t fair. He doesn’t give _me_ much foreplay either when he tops me — oop. I mean he never tops, hehe.”

France gave me a dickish ORLY smirk. Then he got to srs business. He closed his eyes and held the planchette over the board. (A planchette is the little wooden piece you move over the board. The ghosts are supposed to guide the person with it and point to stuff on the board.) “Oh, England,” France began. “America wishes to ask you something. He wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I do.” I waved to the air. “Hi, England.”

Silence.

“Are … are you sure he’s there, France?” I asked. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Oui~, he must just be giving you ze le silent treatment. Because … well … you choked him to death and whatnot.”

“I didn’t choke him to death, _GOD!_ Go on! Ask him! Ask him how he died!”

“Oh, OOOH!” exclaimed France way too excitedly, rustling my jimmies because it sounded a little sexual. “I feel England channeling through me! Yes, yes, he is communicating through me!”

France’s hands were moving on the Ouija board. They were going to different letters, spelling something.

I watched and said the letters out loud as France’s hands moved over them.

“S … U …” I repeated. I got chills because it was spooky, like I was waiting in my bed trying to go to sleep but I keep hearing weird noises wondering if they are just normal noises or a ghost is watching me. Y’all ever been there? Don’t worry, you will tonight. “… C … K …” I continued. “… M …Y … C … O …” God, this was taking forever. I should have made some popcorn. Or popcorn BALLS. Mmm I love popcorn balls. Whoever gives those out on Halloween roxers my soxers. “ … C … K …” 

Then France stopped.

“Aw, crap,” I said. “I probably should have written that down. I’m bad with spelling letters out loud. I need to see it written down.”

“It said ‘suck my cock,’” said France. 

“Oh.” :( “Aw, jeez. So I guess England’s still really mad at me, huh?”

“Because you murdered him, no?”

“I DIDN’T MURDER HIM ZOMG!”

“Oh!” exclaimed France. “I am getting another message! Yes, yes, here it comes!” He moved the planchette over the letters. “F … U …”

“Welp, I can see where this is going,” I sighed. “England is super pissed at me. Probably because one day I got bored and I dressed his dead body up in different outfits and took pictures just for the lulz. What, is having a fashion show with a corpse a crime? Sue me already.”

“C … K …” continued France.

“England!” I said to the spooky air. “Quit being all pissed off! I’m sorry you got choked to death — oop.” I looked over to France who had a shit-eating grin. “I mean, you choked _yourself_ to death! On accident! Completely without making me legally liable! … but you don’t gotta be a dick about it.”

Then I saw the next letters were ‘M’ and ‘E.’ And that was it.

“Huh?” I said. “That’s not what I thought he was gonna say … I don’t get it …” :/

When England saw I was confused about his message, more letters came. France spelled out the clarification: IN THE ASS.

“Weird,” I said, looking all contemplative. “Usually England says ‘arse’ instead of ‘ass.’ Like how he says ‘loo’ instead of ‘bathroom’ and ‘Tardis’ instead of ‘phone booth.’”

“Does he?” France hesitated. “Oh, r-right! Silly me~ He _did_ spell it zat way. I was … eh … paraphrasing.”

“Are you supposed to paraphrase during a séance?”

“Don’t question my skills as a le medium!” snapped France. “Ze important thing is zat you realize zat England meant for you to _excavate his tomb,_ if one knows what one means~”

“No.”

France huffed, all annoyed. “Very well zen! In zat case, he has one more message for you.”

“ONE MOAR? ! It better be that I am not a MURDERER.” England really needed to clear my name. If he didn’t I might go to prison and if I do that how will I ever parkour again? I am into parkcour hardcore.

Now as France’s hands moved the planchette all over the board, I learned something. That ‘penetrate’ is kinda a long word. ‘My dead body’ not so much, as those are short words. But ‘penetrate,’ yeah, that’s a three syllables word! Also ‘with your penis’ – those are all short words.

Wait a minute …

“Jiminy Christmas!” I exclaimed, instantly losing my appetite for Boo Berry cereal. “Did he say to penetrate his dead body with my penis? !”

France was covering his mouth with his hand. “Pfft, I am sorry, America, I cannot keep a straight face—“

“But England’s dead! I can’t do that!”

“… you believed all zis? Surely you of all people would know séances are a farce.”

“France, please. There’s no time for a dictionary to look up what ‘farce’ means. I gotta figure out what to do about England!”

“Zis was a jo — hohoho~ Never mind, Big Brother will have some fun with zis.” France cleared his throat. “America, I am fairly certain England needs you to have le intercourse with his body in order for him to be revived.”

“OH GROSS!”

“It is like ze old fairy tale, no? Ze ones England told you about when you were but a small children. Sleeping Beauty cannot wake until she receives a kiss from her beloved.”

“Uh, yeah, a _kiss_!” I said. “I don’t remember hearing anything about the guy having to give her a thorough dicking.”

“Ah, but zat was ze Disney version. In the original, grimmer version, he has his way with her. England just didn’t want to tell you zat as a young, impressionable baguette.”

“Dude, that’s rape!”

“It’s not rape if zey are dead.”

“Sleeping Beauty wasn’t dead!”

“NO, BUT ENGLAND IS!” France yelled at me. Then he snapped back into his normal, calmer, dickish self. “Please do not argue with your fate. You know now what you must do.”

:/

Well, this blew. I didn’t wanna bang a dead body! I mean, GROSS! Dead bodies got like germs and bacteria and ghosts on them. I don’t want my dick to be haunted! But according to France, who was very trustworthy and totally wouldn’t troll me I’m pretty sure you guys, England wanted me to violate his corpse. You know, with my penis and all.

I mean, I can’t say it didn’t surprise me. England does like to get saucy with me. When he was living he was almost always the one who initiated sex. Which was cool, don’t get me wrong. Though sometimes it was a little inconvenient, like I’d be in the middle of playing Call of Duty or eating a Snack Pack or yelling at my Fantasy Football league on the Internets when they screw up like Michael Vick I mean if you can strangle dogs with your bare hands I’m sure you can catch a ball damnit.

You know another inconvenient time to be asked for sex? When your partner’s dead. 

But what choice did I have? England was taking longer to come back to life than he should have. Maybe he really was waiting for me to awaken him with my alarm clock of penis. Like a rooster crowing in the morning going COCK-A-DOODLE DOOOOO but I will leave out the A-DOODLE DOOOOO (so that only the cock is left.)

“Please stop crying, America,” said France.

“England wants me to bone his dead body,” I said, shaking a little. “What am I gonna do?”

“What to do? Use a condom. Zat is Big Brother’s advice. Dead bodies are ripe with bacteria.”

I couldn’t stop crying :’D

“Hohoho,” chuckled France, reminding me of Santa Claus. “I suppose zis prank has gone on long enough. America, I made up z—“

“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you? !” I asked quickly, all panicked because it just occurred to me. “If I do this, I don’t want anyone to know about it! I don’t want a reputation as some corpse banger!” I mean, who do I look like, Ted? (Ted Bundy, not the talking bear from the movie by the Family Guy guy.)

France chuckled again and said with a rather dickish smirk, “Of course not.”

Actually, he kept laughing and laughing. That arrogant, annoying French laugh he does. He seemed pretty amused by something. But then I kicked him out of my house, and guess who was laughing then?

Well, still him, but now he was out of my house so HA. In his FACE.

With France gone, I turned all the lights on and blew out the candles. Then I went to look at England. He was still on the couch where he’d been for days. Sitting and leaning limply against the back of the couch and the armrest. 

I took a deep breath and reached for the sunglasses. I set them aside. England’s cold, lifeless eyes stared back at me. I stared deeply into them, just to make sure he was still dead, and it was creepy.

I reached for England’s zipper on his pants. I felt all kinds of super guilty. I didn’t feel the same way when I took his clothes off earlier to try on different outfits. I guess because that was just for lulz. This was not for lulz. It was for necrophiling it up.

I unzipped his pants but pulled my hands away. They were shaking.

 I freaked out. This was just a little too fucked up. I ran upstairs to my room, slammed the door shut, and hid under the covers.

X

All night long people kept ringing my doorbell or knocking. I could hear them talking and yelling outside. There were a ton of them! I knew what they were doing. Of course, they had come to say I was a MURDERER. I could tell from the ACCUSING way they rang my doorbell. They just wouldn’t leave me alone!

I mean, I know it was Halloween night and trick or treaters were out Halloweening it up, but still. I know their REAL motive. Accusing me of MURDER. And now also NECROPHILIA. Even though I didn’t even necropheel-him-up let alone go all the way with his dead body. ALL YOU CRAZY KIDS LEAVE ME ALONE! Go home and eat your candy corn. I know it tastes like shit but EAT IT IT’S HALLOWEEN!

I sat under the covers, eating the candy I was supposed to give to trick or treaters, trembling in fear. What if England haunted me because I didn’t make sexy time with him? Or worse, what if other ghosts haunt me? Like BAD ghosts? The kind that will get you tonight when you lay down to sleep. They might get me too!

I was eating M&M’s. They say the green ones make you horny. But I did not feel horny. They did not make me wanna screw a corpse. I mean, not that the M&M’s company claims to promote necrophilia, I’m just saying.

“England, why are you doing this to me? !” I yelled out loud. “You know I don’t wanna bang your dead body! WHY YOU TORTURE ME? !”

I paused and listened. I didn’t hear a response.

“You’re so mean!” I continued. “First you make fun of my PB&J and then you make me choke you to get off and now you’re haunting me so I’ll fuck your corpse! NOT COOL, DUDE!”

Suddenly, I heard a noise. A knocking noise.

“Aw, crap!” I yelped. “England’s coming to get me! Look, I don’t wanna have sex with your ghost neither! That still counts as necrophilia AND it’s super scary! I’M AFRAID OF GHOSTS!”

Don’t be deceived, boys and girls. Sex with ghosts isn’t as fun as the people in the movies make it out to be. Sure, that chick liked it in the movie ‘Ghost’ (REAL ORIGINAL TITLE BTW) when her dead husband or whatever came up behind her while she was making a pottery and was acting all sexy, touching up all over her and then they boned. BUT TRUST ME! It’s not like that IRL. IRL, it’s SCARY. I mean, this is a GHOST we are talking about! When ghosts come around people don’t call Ghostbusters for nothing. They do it because they are scared shitless from evil spirits from another realm and also because Tom Hanks is cool.

Unfortunately the Ghostbusters headquarters shut down after 1989, so I was fucked.

I heard the knocking again, and a voice. “Trick or treat!”

But I heard what they really meant. ‘MURDERER!’

No one would believe me I didn’t kill him! I was gonna start a war and go to jail and everyone was gonna be mad at me and all that spotted dick went to waste.

Eventually the noises stopped and no one came to my door anymore. I tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t. I kept tossing and turning. How could I sleep when I knew England’s ghost was watching me? Every little sound I heard scared me. Was that the ice settling in the freezer’s ice maker, or England being all pissed off? (You ever notice how sometimes when people are mad, they just do everything LOUDER? Because, pssh, oh yeah, that helps the situation.) Was that sound the heater turning on, or England huffing because he’s a mean ol’ pisspot? Was that sound of Whaley splashing around in the water Whaley splashing around in the water, or England ... uh … splashing around in the water?

Things like that drove me nuts!

When I was scared, I hated sleeping alone. I always have been, ever since I was a young chittlin’. Really I should rephrase that to ‘I hate being in bed alone’ because if I am scared there isn’t much sleeping going on. Trembling in fear and hugging a pillow, sure. But not much sleeping.

I just wanted someone to cuddle with. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? ! But who was I gonna call to come cuddle with me at such an ungodly hour? France? Pssh, no way. He’ll just try to have sex with me and eew. Actually, now that I think about it, anyone I call late at night asking to ‘cuddle’ is gonna assume that’s code for sex. There’s no real way to say I’m a grown ass man who is scared and literally just wants someone to hold not sex so come over … no one’s gonna believe that. (And when I type it out like that, it kinda seems a little pathetic.)

And I couldn’t cuddle with Whaley or Tony. Whaley’s too big and Tony doesn’t cuddle. Plus that’d just be weird, ya know? You never saw Elliot spooning with ET, did you?

So I guess I just had to be alone for the night.

FOREVER ALONE :’D

I spooned my pillow hardcore. “It’s okay, Mr. Pillow,” I said. “We’re here for each other. The ghosts can’t get us under the covers like this. I-I think …”

That’s the rules, right? They can’t get you if you’re under the covers? That’s the way I was taught.

“There, there. It’ll b-be okay, Mr. Pillow. I love you.”

I took a big whiff of Mr. Pillow. Mmmm. Oh yeah. Hells yeah. Tide. I washed that pillow with Tide. Y’all know Tide is the best.

“Wait a minute!” I said suddenly. “No, I will not be seduced by your heavenly scent and soft curves! England may be dead and buried — well, he’s _dead_ , at least — but that doesn’t mean I’ll cheat on him!”

I grabbed Mr. Pillow and threw him against the wall. He slammed into it and then fell to the floor, knocking down my poster from Tiger Beat. I’m sorry you had to read that terrible act of violence, boys and girls.

“NO!” I screamed. “No, it will never happen between us! You had your shot! I know we may have had something long ago, before England and me hooked up, and I used you for desperate late-night masturbatory pillow humping, but those times are over!”

I hope you are picturing this dramatic. I was very filled with DRAMA and ANGST.

And INSANITY. Just then I realized how crazy I sounded. I mean, yelling at an inanimate object like it was a person? I don’t live in Blue’s Clue’s house. Not all my stuff in my house is sentient. (But could you imagine? Living in a house where all your stuff talked to you? God that would make me hella paranoid. You couldn’t take a shower or go to the bathroom or jerk off without them watching you.)

But yeah. Back to my craziness. I was losing it, you guys. Being scared and alone had driven me mad. And I had no one to comfort me.

I broke down, and yeah, it was still all dramatic.

“Oh, England,” I sobbed. “I miss you. I don’t wanna sleep in this bed alone. Even if you bitched the whole time about me hogging the covers or snoring or getting up too much in the middle of the night to go pee pee because I drank too much Coke before going to bed even when you said not to, it’s still a million times better than sleeping alone. I wanna cuddle and just have someone to hold me. And to hide under the covers with because the ghosts aren’t as scary if you’re with someone else. Also that’d be one less ghost because right now you are one. What the hell was I saying? Oh yeah. I miss you. Like … a lot. I’d do anything to have you back …”

As the drama set in, I realized what I had said. I’d ‘do anything.’ Well, there was one thing I could do to bring England BTL (that’s short for ‘back to life’.) (I just made that up.) One thing that falls under the category of anything, I guess.

I weighed the pros and cons. Pros: I get England back. I don’t have to sleep alone. I’ll be less scared. Everyone will stop accusing me of MURDER. Cons: I have to put my penis in a dead body. Uh … do I really gotta write more than that? I HAVE TO PUT MY PENIS IN A DEAD BODY.

I don’t really wanna do that. Call me old fashioned, but in general I’m only attracted to the living. 

But if I couldn’t survive ONE night of being scared, how would I go all the rest of the nights after this? England wasn’t gonna come back until I banged him. Best to get it over with, ya know? It’s like a Band-Aid. You just do it really fast and before you know it, it’s over with and you’ve fucked a dead body.

I got up and immediately turned on the lights. Ghosts hate lights. It’s harder to be spooky that way. I fished through a drawer and found what I needed. Then I headed downstairs with it in my hand. If you’re wondering what it was, it was a condom. (Size medium because THAT’S NORMAL THAT’S WHY IT’S MEDIUM!)

When I got downstairs, I saw England still laying limping on the couch. I swallowed nervously. This wasn’t exactly what I planned to do late Halloween night, but here we were. I took a shot of whiskey and a handful of Boo Berry cereal to calm my nerves.

“Here goes nothing,” I said, wiping the cereal crumbs on my pants.

I couldn’t do it on the couch. It just didn’t seem right. I mean, not that doing it with a dead body was right anyway, but the least I could do was do it on a bed. I hoisted his body over my shoulder and carried him upstairs. It felt weird. I’d lifted him before, but he felt heavier now that his body was lifeless and he was dead weight. But I work out like a boss so that was no problem for a BAMF like me.

When I got upstairs, I tossed him onto the bed. Slowly I started to undress him. I started with his shoes and socks. I should have taken off his pants next, but I was getting seriously weirded out, so I took off his shirt. Oh, and I put those sunglasses back ON. Like I want his cold dead stare looking at me while I do this. UGH. That will haunt me like Slenderman does. Oh, he’s coming for you tonight too. Just thought you should know.

With shaky hands, I slid off England’s pants. He was still wearing underwear, if you were wondering. I never took those off when I played dress-up with his dead body. Y’all ever played dress-up games online? That’s kinda what I did to England earlier. Except I did actually leave on the undies — I know you try to take them off when you play the games, don’t you? Don’t lie, you pervert. But that’s okey, I ain’t gonna judge. Because I’m sure whoever you played the game with was alive and not a dead body, so that’s kinda normal. (If your dress-up game really was dressing a dead body, I AM judging. I mean WTF who would even make that? Also don’t send England the link when he comes to, because he’s already into too much freaky shit as it is.)

I was gonna take off his underwear, but I backed off and decided to undress myself instead. I started to take off my shirt, but then I was like, it’s hella cold, it’s almost November which is almost December which is almost Christmas, so I left it on. I kicked off my shoes and reached for my zipper.

“Any ghosts except for England, you better leave now,” I said out loud. “This ain’t a peep show. I don’t want y’all getting off on this.”

Then I thought about how ghosts are always moaning all the time, and I thought about them having ghost sex with each other or jerking it to us living peoples, and got a major case of the creeps. UGH. Did you know Kesha claims to have had sex with a ghost? That has nothing to do with anything, I just thought you should know. If you ever see a ghost covered in glitter, you know where it came from. I guess that’s why she has a song about dying young. If she dies young, her ghost will still be hot.

With a deep, shaky breath I peeled England’s underwear off like a wrapper from a Snickers bar. Snickers are my favorite. But there was no time for chocolate now. 

England wasn’t very sexy while he was dead. While his body didn’t decompose because he is a country, it does still get cold. It was very cool to the touch, like a Wendy’s Frosty. His penis was limp and sad looking. Normally seeing him naked got me feeling horny, but now it only made me feel sick. Kinda like certain foods only taste good when they’re hot. Hot fried chicken? Mmm, yeah. Cold fried chicken? Ugh, get it away from me.

I ripped open the condom wrapper with my teeth. I was taking France’s advice. I don’t want no dead germs on my penis! Did you know that when you die, your body stops producing white blood cells, so there’s nothing to fight off bacteria? The bacteria become rampant and take over and eat all of your body’s tissue except your bones! That’s why you should always use protection when sticking your penis into a dead body. *THE MOAR YOU KNOW*

I got some lotion and started to rub it on my penis. It’s hard to put a condom on a limp dick! Y’all have seen the banana demonstrations. The first time I used a condom I put it on a banana for practice. Then I ate the banana. LOL y’all ever stuck a banana in your mouth as far as you can, bit down just a little, then looked to see how deep your teeth indentation is? To see how far you can deep throat like if it was a real penis? … no, just me? Okay …

Getting hard wasn’t easy. I just wasn’t in the mood. All I could think about was how ghosts were probably all around me, including England’s ghost, and they were all haunting me and accusing me, and it was spooky. That’s kind of a boner killer. I was gonna have to rely on physical stimulation only. If I touch myself enough, eventually I’ll get hard. It just takes longer.

So I sat on the bed, next to England’s dead body, jerking off my half-hard cock. I hoped Tony didn’t walk in. I forgot all about him.

Finally, I was hard. Or hard enough. I rolled the condom over my penis. It was Trojan brand. I sure hoped the Trojan Man didn’t burst into my room like he does during the commercials like “TROJAN MAAAAN!” because if he did that would be very awkward to see me about to violate a dead body. That’s not good product placement for him, even though I’m sure he knows people should use condoms with dead bodies.

I squirted some lotion into my hand. With my other hand, I pulled one of England’s legs so that they were apart. I spread him wide. Boy did this feel weird, holding his leg, which felt all limp and heavy. It felt even weirder when I pushed two lotiony fingers inside him. It was so COLD! Even colder than the lotion. Asses aren’t supposed to be cold! They should be warm like warm chocolate pie. Not cold like Snack Packs, even though Snack Packs are delicious.

I cringed at the sound it made. SQUISH SQUISH. It normally didn’t sound like that. I pulled my fingers out, squirted a little more lotion on my hand, and then pressed my fingers back in. I wanted it real slick in there. Dead bodies kinda dry out a little.

My boner was flagging because I was seriously squicked, so I needed to hurry up. If I went too soft the condom would slip off, and I didn’t feel like putting another on I mean they’re all the way on the other side of the room come on you guys. So I wiped my hand on England’s clothes, and got to business.

I shivered when I entered him. Not because it felt good, but because it was cold. Like I’d just sunk my dick deep into a Dairy Queen blizzard. It’s supposed to feel, like in the epic words of the Wiggles, like hot potato, hot potato. Not cold spaghetti, cold spaghetti.

Like a Snuggie, the condom helped shield my penis from the cold a little, but not enough. I was shivering as I started fucking him. It was the coldest sex I ever had, and I once had sex in Canada’s igloo. 

I wondered, as I rocked myself in and out of his spooky dead hole, how long it would take until he woke up. Like does he just gotta be penetrated, and like banged a little, and he wakes up during it? Or do I gotta finish? Jesus, imagine waking up to someone fucking your dead body. I mean, what do you say? It’s not like you can just be like, ‘Hey, sup?’ because that’s kinda awkward. Besides, it’s not rape if they’re dead.

But it didn’t matter anyway, because England wanted this. He told me. He told me through France, who was a master of ceremonies. I mean séances. It’s not rape if they want it. If England came to while I was banging him, he’d probably be happy. Like ‘YAAAY YOU’RE SEXING ME!’ except he’d say it more British like ‘JOLLY GOOD YOU’RE SHAGGING ME!’ or some shit. And then I would swallow down the vomit gathering in the back of my throat and finish just slightly less creeped out since he wasn’t dead anymore.

As I thrust in and out of England’s dead body, the movements knocked off the sunglasses. So then his cold, dead, lifeless green eyes stared deep into mine, unmoving but giving me a serious case of the jibblies. 

“AHH!” I yelped, and forced his eyelids closed with my hand. One sprung back open, and I was even more freaked out.

I was starting to go soft. I was never gonna finish this way! I couldn’t get off while in major creepytown. 

“England, why did you do this to me? !” I yelled to him. I kept fucking him, even though I felt myself getting gradually more and more soft. “I don’t like freaky sex! I told you this before! I just like it normal ways! WHY MUST YOU TORTURE ME SO? !”

Just then my iPhone rang. I glanced over to it on the nightstand. It was almost midnight. Who could be calling this late at night? Goddamn pollsters. I’ve had enough of you asking who I’m voting for! 

NO WAIT. They must be calling to accuse me of MURDERING England! People just won’t leave me alone! Pollsters called me every day to do that. I know when they ask who I’m gonna vote for they mean to accuse me of MURDER. 

“I SWEAR I DIDN’T KILL HIM!” I yelled into the phone after answering it. This is how you should always answer the phone when a pollster calls. Go on, try it. I bet you’ll get less calls if you do.

I listened for a reply. I didn’t stop pounding into England’s cold, lifeless body as I waited. The nasty, wet sound of me sliding in and out of his dead flesh almost drowned out the sound on the phone. But I could hear it. The sound of heavy breathing on the other line.

“Who is this? !” I demanded to know. 

The only reply was more of the same heavy breathing.

It freaked me out and went even more soft inside of England. I tried banging him harder, but it was no use. The condom slipped off and I pulled out, leaving it inside him.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I yelled into the phone. 

I star 69ed that bitch to see who it was. But then I realized …

THE CALL FROM COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE

X

“OOOOOOHHH!” I said, flicking the flashlight under my chin on and off so that my face looked spooky. “SCARY, RIGHT? !”

The rest of the G8 stared back at me like WTF.

I flicked the flashlight on and off some more. “Don’t you guys get it? It was coming from INSIDE the house!”

I didn’t get it! We were having a world meeting thing today and since it was just a couple days after Halloween, I suggested to everyone that we’d share scary ghost stories. I told a great one and no one seemed to appreciate it! I told them so I would look cool! I mean, that was a pretty interesting story, am I right?

There was a long silence before anyone said anything.

Finally, Germany nervously cleared his throat. “I-I think that’s enough ghost stories for today.”

“Whaaaat?” I said. “Didn’t y’all think that was scary?”

“I-I-I did,” said Italy, who was hiding under the table.

“HAHAHA! … good.”

“That was terrible!” said China. “Your ending makes no sense! What does call have to do with anything? We never learn if England wakes up! You didn’t tie up loose end with France tricking you! You included many things completely unrelated to story! It barely even about ghosts at all! Story completely unravels as it goes! That was the worst ghost story I have heard in my entire four thousand year old life and if you live in my country I would execute you for bad story telling just like I execute people for frivolous reasons every day.”

“Shut up, China,” I said. “You ain’t even in the G8. GTFO.”

China looked pissed.

“I liked it,” said Russia.

“Y’all missed the whole point!” I said. “There are ghosts and it was spooky and the call was coming from INSIDE the house!”

“That ending makes no sense!” said China.

“What, do you want me to say that instead of getting a phone call during the necrophiliac sex, I kept going, which took a long time because I was freaked out and also condoms make it so you have less sensation, but then finally came as I stared into that one, lifeless, still eye, and then rolled off him, tied off the condom and threw it away, cried myself to sleep, and didn’t sleep for two more nights because England still didn’t come back to life for two more days, because apparently France was just fucking with me, even though I was so sure he was for reals, and every time I tried to go to sleep every sound I heard sounded like a ghost and they were coming to get me, but then eventually England came back to life and it was rather uneventful because I was finely sane again and I didn’t have to worry about people calling me a MURDERER anymore and then he just went back to his own country and our lives when on as normal? Because that would be a rather anticlimactic end, don’t you think?”

They all looked very uncomfortable.

“Whaaat?” I said. “Come onnn. It’s not like that was a true story or something.”

Then suddenly England hurried into the room, wearing a scarf. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, all rushing inside and stuff. “I had to speak with my bosses about my extended absence. I know some of you tried to contact me but for over a week I was unreachable.” He sat down. “My apologies.”

Everyone went like :O And stared. Especially at that scarf around his neck.

I sighed -_-

“Goddamnit, England.”

(THE END!)

P.S. Don’t forget. Tonight. They are coming for you when you lay down to go to bed.

SLEEP TIGHT YOU GUYS


End file.
